


Cold Hands

by Spirifer



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, This is all "for science"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 01:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14822690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spirifer/pseuds/Spirifer
Summary: On one hand, there’s probably some ethical issues about sleeping with your boss… even if she says it’s for research. On the other hand, you probably threw away any regard for ethics the day you decided to work for Moira O’Deorain and Blackwatch.





	Cold Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say except that I'm incredibly thirsty for Moira.
> 
> This was originally going to be a series, but I'll be honest with you, I'm not nearly motivated to write porn all that often. But I definitely will probably come out with a longer fic in the same universe exploring Moira and Reader's relationship as it develops.

“Comfortable?” Moira’s voice is disinterested, detached as usual, the question more of a formality than it is an actual query.

 

You don’t answer, since she likely already knows your answer. Instead, you find yourself worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you feel the cold metal of your restraints snap over your wrists and ankles—barely tight enough for you to feel the biting cold of the metal, but still enough to prevent from giving you too much wiggle room.

 

The thin, white shift you change into for these… procedures… is riding up on your thighs, and you fight the urge to squirm around. You’ve learned from past experiences that Moira won’t bother to straighten it out for you, and you’d rather keep some semblance of dignity through this. You give one last shift, settling in somewhat self-consciously.

 

Moira’s hand on your thigh is what brings you back to yourself, a light pressure to alert you as she begins to speak. “Today we will be testing endurance,” Moira tells you. At least, you think it’s addressed to you. It wouldn’t be the first time that she’s made a recording of her procedures.

 

She catches you eyeing her hand—long, graceful fingers that send a gentle shiver down your spine—and uses her other hand to your head to look up at her, redirecting your focus, “We will be testing your stamina levels and recovery abilities. Do you understand?”

 

You swallow with some difficulty; your throat already dry. Unable to trust yourself to speak, you nod your head.

 

“Be clear now,” Moira’s hand presses into you with slight insistence, nails not quite scratching the soft skin of your inner thigh, “we need to record every step.”

 

Already, a flush is rising to your skin, partially from embarrassment of knowing that she’s _filming_ this again and the other ~~bigger~~ part of you feeling a quiet, dirty thrill of anticipation.

Moira releases the grasp she had on your chin in favor of lightly tracing a finger over your burning face in a manner that, on any other person, would be considered lovingly appreciative. Her fingers—perpetually feeling like she was just outside during a brisk day in fall—make the action as far removed from romantic as you can expect. Clinical.

 

“I am running out of patience,” she warns you, the hand on your thigh pressing down harder, leaving a light stinging sensation you only barely feel. “Answer me. Do you understand today’s procedures?”

 

Face flaming, heart pounding a skittish rhythm behind your ribs, you try to speak in a voice as neutral and as clinical as Moira’s. (You fail, of course.) “Yes, Dr. O’Deorain. I understand.”

 

The slightest downward twitch of her lips indicate that she had hoped to draw out a longer sentence from you, but she is merciful for once and doesn’t press you to repeat yourself. Her hand on your thigh slides up without warning, parting your folds and pressing a long finger inside of you in one fluid motion.

 

A gasp, mostly of surprise, escapes you at the intrusion. Your face flushes even further when you realize just how easily you took her finger without any preparation.

 

Moira, too, has taken notice. An impeccable eyebrow is arched at you, “I see you’ve acclimated quickly.”

 

Slowly and deliberately, Moira withdraws her finger and presses it back into you all the way to the knuckle. This time, the quiet noise that escapes you is _definitely_ not of pain. You would normally bite your lip, trying to keep those sounds muffled as best as you can, but Moira anticipates this and wedges her thumb into your mouth.

 

She swipes it across your tongue, slowly, in tandem with the finger sliding ever so slowly in and out of you. “Agh,” you whimper as she withdraws her thumb, a thin string of saliva connecting the two of you.

 

“I hope you will need no other reminders,” she says pointedly. She wipes her thumb on your white gown, trailing up from your hip to your side and causing you to squirm from the light touch.

 

“I—I understand,” your voice hitches in the middle of the sentence as she chooses to add a second finger as she enters you, still moving in the same slow rhythm.

 

Making a noise of consideration, Moira curls her fingers as she pulls them out, scraping lightly against your front wall. Your thighs twitch instinctively, feeling the need to clamp down on her arm so that you can just grind down on those long, wicked fingers and get her to stop _teasing_. The restraints keep you from doing even a fraction of that, but the motion does not escape Moira’s watchful eye.

 

There is also no way that Moira would not have noticed how your breathing is coming out faster and more ragged, or how the flush from your face has gradually spread down to your neck and chest. She makes no overt mention of it, but when you try to turn your head to avoid her gaze, a firm hand against your cheek guides you back to looking back up at her. The command is implied, but very clear; you make no move to avert your gaze, although the intensity of her gaze makes your blush grow.

 

Moira’s fingers are picking up speed, rubbing at a spot that has you fluttering, feeling like jelly. Every stroke is calculated to brush against that spot, and you feel yourself rapidly approaching the edge; incoherent noises tumble out of your mouth—partially formed phrases of praise, her name, and pleas for her to finish. The corners of her mouth quirk up slightly at your desperation, particularly after you let out a whine as she presses your hips back onto the examination table. You hadn’t even noticed you’d moved.

 

“Behave yourself,” she leans in, murmuring quietly against your ear, breath ghosting lightly over the shell of your ear. She knows what she’s doing. She has to, you think to yourself, she has to know what that does to you. A mask of impassiveness has come over her features as she reaches her thumb out to rub quick little circles over your clit.

 

You can’t stop the pleas from leaving your lips, a breathy sob caught halfway in your throat. Her other hand is still pressed down on your hip, stopping you from grinding up into her hand. You’re so close, so close—you can feel yourself fluttering each time she pumps her fingers inside of you—and you’re _so_ wet for her; even if you couldn’t feel your juices leaking with each thrust, you can hear the wet noises it makes. It’s so loud and obscene in the darkened lab, and if you were to be found out—the thought sends an unbidden thrill through you and you feel your pussy pulse eagerly.

 

You are flushed bright red, partially from embarrassment but mostly from the needy _heat_ that Moira inspires in you. “Please!”

 

Once again, the mask of impassiveness cracks just minutely and a quirk of her lips is all the acknowledgement you get that she noticed you. Her pace does not pick up, much to your dismay; you are just so, so desperate.

 

“Please, please. _Please!_ I n-nee—” you practically sob, bucking your hips as best as you can but despite her wiry frame, Moira is more than capable of restraining you. Your desperation makes you forget, for just a moment, to keep up that thin veneer of propriety and you call out for her, “Please, Moira!”

 

She continues fingering you at the same pace for a few strokes, and you really think that she’s going to leave you hovering on the edge for as long as she can, but she finally obliges your frantic begging and begins to rub your g-spot and clit simultaneously at a pace that has your toes curling. A high, keening noise is vaguely audible in the lab and it takes a moment for you in your haze to recognize that it’s _you_ making the noise—thanking Moira over and over again.

 

It hits you hard, arching your back off of the examination table. You’re babbling something incoherent as Moira’s fingers continue to work on you, pumping languidly in and out as well as lightly brushing over your overstimulated clit. As you come down from your orgasm, you twitch and try to squirm away every time she brushes against that bundle of nerves.

 

Moira makes a clicking noise, her other hand moving down to hold your thighs open, “We are not quite done here.”

 

“Y-yes, Dr. O’Deorain,” you murmur, letting your thighs fall open and fighting the urge to clamp them closed to protect yourself from overstimulation. “Oh!”

 

“Good,” is all she says in response. It’s barely praise, more of an offhand comment to herself, but the word still makes your heartbeat flutter erratically in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that you’re still being fingerfucked by her.

 

Moira’s relentless pace and expert familiarity with your body brings you to the edge again, this time faster than before. You barely have to gasp out her name before she tips you right over the edge, convulsing around her fingers.

 

She still doesn’t stop there, although she does swap her hands, and continues to rub at your clit despite your weak protests. Her other hand—the one that was previously inside of you—comes up to brush lightly against your bottom lip, a familiar and clear command. You enthusiastically clean yourself off of her fingers, drawing her fingers into your mouth and gently rasping your tongue along them.

 

The next orgasm hits you hard and suddenly, causing you to cry out, Moira’s fingers slipping from your mouth. A thin trail of saliva connects the two of you, one that Moira’s vague disinterested gaze fixates on. She slips her fingers back into your mouth, pumping the other fingers of her other hand into your pussy and accompanying it with a quick flick to your bundle of nerves.

 

Your moans are muffled against Moira’s hand, but you’re definitely thrashing against your restraints now that Moira is no longer holding you still. You’re overheated, overstimulated and dripping. The next orgasm that tears through causes you to arch off of the table briefly.

 

Slowly, you begin to lose track of how long you’ve been under Moira’s control and how many times she’s dragged another trembling orgasm out of your sensitive body. At some point you feel her icy cold hands on your face, thumbs wiping away a trail of moisture. You weren’t even aware you were crying.

 

“You’re doing so well,” she murmurs to you, voice low and smooth, with a touch of what you hope is appreciation. “You’ve been perfect today. All we need is just one more.”

 

And you’ve always known you were doomed, but when she looks you in the eye and praises you, you know in that instant that you’d follow any command she’d give. All you can do is try to grit your teeth at the imminent orgasm that rips through you—you think you hear yourself cry out before you fall back against the table, limbs feeling like jelly and your vision fading to black.

 

\---

 

Some time later—you have no inkling of how long you passed out for—you awake to find yourself still on that damned examination table. You half expect to be strapped down, but Moira has remembered to let you go this time. Your wrists are slightly reddened from where your thrashing dug your restraints into the tender skin, but you only feel the barest hint of a sting—running your hands over it, it feels cool to the touch.

 

With an exhale, you push yourself up into a sitting position. The lab coat draped over your body slides off your shoulders and pools in a heap in your lap. Judging by the dimensions, it’s one of Moira’s and not yours. You fold it up the best you can and put it to the side to prevent it from wrinkling before you start to scour the lab for Moira.

 

It’s not that hard to find her; she rarely leaves the lab. You find her deep in thought by the computer terminals, chin resting on her steepled fingers as her eyes read over a report of some sort. A lock of her bright red hair has fallen out of place from the rest of its immaculate group, and it trails softly along the side of her face.

 

She doesn’t hear you approach, or she’s too busy to acknowledge you. Either one could be a possibility, really. You walk over to her, across the cold tile of the lab on your bare feet. You cough quietly to get her attention, and after about a second of delay, Moira makes an acknowledging noise without taking her eyes off the computer screen.

 

“It is late,” you begin hesitantly.

 

“Hmm,” is Moira’s distracted reply.

 

“I will be headed off to sleep,” you try again.

 

Moira mutters something that might be her way of bidding you goodnight.

 

_It’s no use_ , you sign inwardly to yourself. You watch Moira for a few seconds longer, some deep part of your soul longing for her to follow you. She doesn’t budge, of course.

 

It is getting late, as you said. And Moira will still be expecting you in at your regular time. Increased recovery speed or not, you still need _some_ sleep and you’re still capable of feeling tired. Extremely exhausted, in this case. Whatever the excuse, you’re not really thinking about it when you brush your hand along Moira’s sharp jawline and tenderly tuck the stray piece of hair behind her ear.

 

The motion draws her out of her thoughts and she finally turns to look at you, taking in the dark circles beginning to form under your eyes and the fact that you’re still clad in that godforsaken hospital gown. Her eyes run over you from head to toe, assessing you.

 

Before you can stammer out an excuse or an apology, she’s pulling up a chair beside her own, giving you a pointed look. You seat yourself somewhat stiffly in it.

 

“Once I finish with this draft, we will head back to our quarters,” she tells you. “In the meantime, you should still rest after strenuous activity.”

 

Your heart flutters hopelessly at the words _our quarters_. You are such a hopeless mess.

 

Moira turns back to her work, but this time you’re a little less hesitant about leaning your head against her shoulder. She’s too bony for it to be that comfortable, but you still find some level of reassurance in the contact.

 

And it certainly helps when she absentmindedly runs a hand through your hair, trailing over your neck in a gentle caress.


End file.
